


Lightly buttered toast: the bits that fell off

by AmyWilldo



Series: Pride & Prejudice and COVID [2]
Category: Pride and Prejudice (2005)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26338678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyWilldo/pseuds/AmyWilldo
Summary: These were all the plot bits that didn't fit into "Pride & Prejudice and the time of the dreadful 'virus'. I did try to make them, but they very much would not.Regency language dictates that I could not allow Elizabeth to swear, although there were several times where the feeling was strong in the girl.
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jane Bennet/Charles Bingley, Mary Bennet/William Collins, caroline bingley/ charlotte lucas
Series: Pride & Prejudice and COVID [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913920
Comments: 42
Kudos: 34





	1. An Assembly where Mr Darcy chose to dance (chapter 2)

The Assembly room was indeed full, mused Elizabeth, and the lack of dancing companions most boring. There was only so much punch that one could sensibly consume, before one became foolish. Elizabeth was, or so she estimated, one cup away from her limit, and resolved that she would only hold her next and sip, and not drink. There was naught else to do, and so when Charlotte suggested that they bring cups to the most elegant Bingley sisters, she willingly agreed.

Miss Bingley curtseyed, although not as deeply as Miss Lucas and Miss Elizabeth Bennett, and Mrs Hurst did not notice at all, until she was abruptly nudged by Miss Bennett’s sharp elbow.

“Oh, thank you ever so,” said Miss Bingley, with what appeared to be as smile ‘neath her purple mask. “How frightfully kind. Miss Elizabeth, was it? Would you do me the honour of introducing me to your friend?”

Elizabeth looked to Charlotte in order to share a grimace, but found her friend flushing ‘neath her own mask, and there was nothing for it but to make the introduction. “Mrs Hurst, Miss Bingley, may I present Miss Charlotte Lucas. Her father is Sir Walter Lucas, who you may have met at St James Court, in London. Or not, I am not aware of how these things work, but everyone in London seems to know one another.”

Miss Bingley smiled warmly, or so it must be supposed for the mask concealed it, at Charlotte. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure, no, we do not frequent St James Court at all at the moment, of course. What an intriguing gown you are wearing, Miss Lucas.”

Charlotte laughed. “You need not be so polite, Miss Bingley. I know very well my red hair and this orange gown clash frightfully, but in so doing, at least I am memorable, for I know only too well, thanks to my parents, that my looks will not be so.”

Miss Bingley shook her head. “I speak out of turn, but it was unkind and untrue of your parents to speak so. Your hair is delightful, and you are most kind to attend to our comfort. If you have no claim on your hand for the next dance, I would be glad of your company, for this hall is a trifle bleak for my tastes.”

Charlotte laughed again. “There are never any claims on my hand for any dance, and the only times I stand up to do so is when my father leans too heavily on my age over the supper the night before. I do not desire my skirt to be torn, even one as bright as this. As Elizabeth knows, my tastes run far more to comfortable conversations with congenial ladies, and there are few enough in Meryton for that, and London is closed to me at present. I would welcome the opportunity.”

Elizabeth tried very hard not to roll her eyes, and hid her face ‘neath a sip of the punch, after removing her mask, momentarily forgetting her internal stricture. After the sip, there was slightly more of a lilt to the room than previously, and Elizabeth felt herself to be more amused by her friend than was polite. 

“I would wish that there were more claims on my hand for a dance,” she said, a little louder than she intended. “As much as I love to practice the art of conversation, I am here for my feet, and the exercise. There is something one can only learn about a gentleman by observing how he dances, and it is best learnt by standing up with him. For instance, Mr Swan over there, is incredibly self absorbed, watch as he stands on Miss Lewis’ toes, and does not stop to beg pardon. Mr Freston over there, has no conviction of his own, it is entirely supplied by his mother, and his partner is left to try awkwardly to lead the dance where he does not. Mr Jackson is perspiring a great deal more than the other fellows, and such cannot be pleasant in a partner. And Mr Lester there is someone who I would not trust to take a walk with about the town square, see how his partner is continually redirecting his hand from places where it should not be. Where else but on a dancefloor can one learn these things?”

She turned back from her observation to find Charlotte standing a little closer than previously to Miss Bingley, Mrs Hurst having departed for the company of her husband, and Mr Darcy, the black coated gentleman of earlier acquaintance, standing with an eyebrow raised, and looking must quizzically at her.

“Miss Bennett, is it not? I did not intend to eavesdrop, I assure you, such behaviour would be quite ungentlemanly. And yet, I am intrigued. Does the same apply to the gentlemen? Would you allow that they may as well observe much, from the sidelines, from the behaviour of those taking the floor?” His tone was a trifle more mocking, she felt, than it needed to be, in particular given his earlier conversation. 

“Sir. Any gentleman of note would be on the dancefloor, not observing it, when the balance of the sexes is as lacking as it is tonight. “ She dimly heard Charlotte with a reprimand, and Caroline Bingley whisper “a palpable hit” in encouragement. 

“I take your meaning,” said Mr Darcy, with both eyebrows up. “Please consider yourself engaged for the next.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “I do not recall asking you for a dance, sir.”

“A lady should never have to ask. And if anyone throws down a challenge at me, I would be a fool and a coward not to accept. Or did I take you wrongly, madam?”

She very much wanted to throw the punch in his face, but discovered that she had finished the cup. She fastened her mask back about her face. She placed the glass on a nearby table. She raised her eyebrows at Charlotte and Miss Bingley, who were both appearing very much too amused for her tastes. 

“Very well,” she said, restraining herself. “If you feel yourself adequate to the challenge of dancing with me, for I have heard recently that I am barely a tolerable dancing partner at best. Please mind your feet, sir.”

She was pleased to see a flush about his cheeks, and neck, where she could see about the mask, but he did not hit back, and so she allowed herself to be escorted to the floor, all the better to be critical of Mr Darcy’s dancing form in some manner or other, for the earlier overheard conversation still stung. 

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on one’s perspective, Mr Darcy proved to be an excellent dancer. His grasp of her hand, and her waist was firm, yet gentle. His gait was light, and he was nimble on his feet. He was ready for but did not pre-anticipate the moves of the dance, and he did not stand on her toes, or her dress, or present himself or stare at her in any manner unbecoming. He appeared to be enjoying himself, and taking pains to ensure that she had no complaint, such that the only faults she could find was firstly that he did not attempt any conversation, and secondly, that the dance was over, and she was returned to her companions before she had expected, but such is always the case with experiences that are pleasant. She fancied she felt his eyes on her one or two times in the course of the remainder of the night, but she found herself engaged, as if by the fates, by Mr Swan, who stepped on her toes, and then Mr Freston who bumped them into all the other partners, Mr Jackson, who left her gloves wet as a fish and Mr Lester, whose hands wandered quite awfully, and then the evening was at a close, and the Netherfield party had departed without any further opportunity to find herself in his company. In her dreams that night, she had but one companion, and he had brown eyes, and sweet breath, and held her as tight as she dared imagine, which was quite a deal indeed, and of a sudden the ballroom, and then their clothes, disappeared, and she could not quite meet her own eyes in the mirror in the morning.


	2. The importance of one hand touching another (chapter 9)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Darcy imagines quite improperly

His hands would not stop tingling for the duration of the afternoon, no matter what the occupation. He took to horse, and felt her hand hold his, even as he held the reins. In the evening, as he cut at his mutton, and sipped from his wineglass, there was a ghost of a finger tracing the back of his own in a manner that she had never dared. He had a letter to write, even as Caroline harped at him for attention, and as he wrote with his left hand, it felt as if she held the other, held it firmly as she had done in their dance and it was almost a surprise to find that it was not there when he looked up, to meet Caroline’s gaze from across the room, and blankly try to reconstruct the one sided conversation that she must have been having, something about the elder Miss Lucas, and a gallery in London frequented by the ton.  
His sister had hands that were long, white and slender. Strong as nails, from her hours at the pianoforte, and as graceful and expressive as he imagined an actress’ hands would be. He could not recall his mother’s hands at all, but he expected that they were much on the same build. Miss Bingley’s hands were an unknown, forever gloved, and usually held one in the other, and he had never imagined what was held within, nor did he want to.

Miss Bennett’s hands, he had known from his dance, were strong and determined. What he had not, could not, have imagined was the feel of her skin. There were callouses, and roughness, that were no doubt due to the kitchen and household duties that she had, to which ladies of the ton would not stoop. There was softness where his thumb had briefly stroked across the back of her hand, and he shivered again to remember it. In the privacy of his room, and far from Miss Bingley’s prying eyes, he speculated about Miss Bennett’s neck, and whether it would feel the same, and how her hands, so strong and firm, and soft and rough, might feel upon his own, and he did not stop his imagination there, no matter how much he was sensible that in reality, she would never stoop to such an action, and to imagine her doing so was not truly the act of a gentleman. Afterwards, he reprimanded himself sternly, and counted it lucky that the Bennetts had departed Netherfield, for his actions had by no means put an end to either the tingling, or his imagination.


	3. Mary is ill (chapter 14)

Mary is waiting, she knows, but she does not wish to examine why her heart is fluttering so, for that would not be rational. Mary’s head no longer pains her so, and she coughs but rarely, but her legs and arms feel like unironed ribbons, all crinkled and loose, and will not do her bidding. Mary is a person possessed of iron like will, and such a situation is deeply intolerable. She cannot hold a book to read, nor sit at the piano to play, even if the others in the house would tolerate the noise, all recovering at a rate faster than her own, but still recovering nonetheless, and no doubt she would be told, as she always is, to cease. Her sheets, she is only too aware, are rank with sweat, from the last two weeks of tossing and turning and sleepless nights and sleeping days, and she detests the sight of her cracked ceiling, the one constant throughout the ordeal, in the room she has been sent to cough out the days, to give the others who are less badly off some respite.

No, she thinks suddenly, it hasn’t been. She recalls shouting at someone to leave her room, in between fits of coughing which felt like her lungs would break, and that it would still not be enough to clear them. She recalls a wetcloth across her forehead, and she knows that it was not her sisters that put it there, her parents neither, all too ill to do as much. There was a gentle voice, telling her that she was strong, that she would pull through this, to have faith in God, and listen to the sound of his voice. Asking her to hold on, for her parents, for her sisters, and once, she thinks, for him, but her memory is a little fuzzy.

She recalls, she thinks, a night when she could not help but cry, her pillow wet with it. She was twenty, almost, and she might die. What good had her life been to her? She knew only too well that her sisters thought of her as the odd one out, more interested in things that were internal than external. She would insist on reading philosophy, and theology and psychology, and how to lead a moral life and she knew that it did her no favours with her sisters, but she did not understand why they were not interested. Surely anyone, everyone alive should be interested in the best way in which to live your life? To improve the world for those about you? How was it possible to take any action, without being certain that it was to be the absolutely most correct one for that situation? It took a prodigious amount of preparation in Mary’s view to be ready, and Mary was not, she judged herself. Now, despite all the preparation, all the frivolous things of pure enjoyment she had given up for that preparation, it was all for naught, for she would die, the same as anyone else, at the variance of fate. It was cruel and unfair, and she could hate it all she liked, she would die all the same.

There had been a rap at the door, and Mr Collins had appeared, his head craned around. Like a bird, she had thought, and snorted, half choked with it. He had said something, and she could not recall now what it was, but he had come in, with a mug of tea. The tea had been tasteless, and she had not known whether it had been his ill brewing, or if the ‘virus had taken her taste with it, as it had sapped her energy, but she had been grateful, feeling her throat relax, and the ache of it abate. He had turned to go, and she had cried, like Lydia would have as a child for a lost doll, and he had turned on the instant and come back to her. Even though her hair must have been matted and rank, he stroked it like it was silk, and held her hand, with his own, soft and uncalloused, and she had fallen asleep to it, her throat relaxed and her breathing eased for the first time since the fever started. 

She had woken in the night, to find that she had still his hand held tight, and he had, apparently, resigned himself to it, curled about her on top of the blankets, with, as she checked, his shoes still on. She had never seen a man asleep before. She had thought, for a second, that the right thing, the absolutely most correct thing to do, if one was an unmarried maiden, not engaged to a gentleman who had found himself asleep next to one, would be to wake the gentleman, and bade him depart, and then inform one’s parents, who would broker an engagement immediately. Mary had thought about that, and found that for once, the absolutely most correct thing to do was not the thing that was right for her, Mary Bennett. She could not quite manage his shoes, but she could manage to drag a blanket about his person, and he, no doubt exhausted from the days of caring for the entire Bennett household, did not wake, and she was relieved and she did not take the trouble of considering why.

In the morning, she had woken to find his arm about her, and thought to herself how pleasant it felt. She had turned, to see his face, for no rational reason that she could conjure, and found him blinking awake, and he had smiled, clearly not quite conscious, and her heart turned over inside herself. But then he had completely woken, and scrambled out of bed, with stammered apologies, and she had had to repeat her reassurances that nothing untoward had occurred, and everything should be well, and that if he was quiet enough, no-one of the household would suspect a thing, and he should return to his own bed, and no, he was not to confess to Papa and ask for her hand, to not be ridiculous. 

That had been five nights prior. One night of shared sleep might have been excusable, Mary knew full well that five nights was not. Last night, she had insisted that he remove his shoes before he began to read to her, rather than continuing to pretend that the shared sleep was accidental any more. She had asked for some verses from Psalms, with which he had obliged, which were innocent enough, but then he had moved on to a verse from John Donne, which called for God to batter his heart, and hi face had been full of such passion that her heart quite felt battered itself. But she had fallen, as ever asleep, and when she woke in the morning, he had been awake, and she knew full well it was not Psalms he was reciting, but the Canticles, although he had stopped on the instant, and made a hurried exit. She is only too aware, now, of the torture she is putting herself through, of the sweet agony of knowing that she has feelings on which she cannot act, and yet continuing to put herself in a position where she must resist them. 

This evening, she has made an attempt at washing her face, and brushing her teeth, and combing out her matted dirty blonde hair, although she had to lie down for a good hour after. She has put on a fresh nightgown, and wished desperately for Lydia’s looks, or Elizabeth’s verve or even Jane’s calm.

William’s face, when he enters, is stern, and he tells her that they cannot continue, that it is improper to do so, that even if they were engaged it would be improper to do so, that the only proper way in which this can continue is if they are wed, and Mary looks at him, for she has no words to say what she wants to say. When he asks her, she says yes and his kiss is the sweetest thing she’s ever tasted.


	4. Elizabeth detests a bully (chapter 20)

“Mary tells me that you play the piano, though not as well as she,” said Lady Catherine pointing the fan in close proximity to Elizabeth’s face.

Elizabeth could no longer repress her natural response to one who had in quick succession insulted her parents, and her piano playing, and now attempted to intimidate her with a poorly placed fan.

She took the fan, and broke it across the nearest table, and threw the remains in her host’s face.

“I detest a bully,” she said loudly. “Mr Collins, I will not be staying. No, do not trouble yourself, I will find my own way home. Kitty, if you can overlook the insult to our parents, you may chuse to stay, otherwise you are welcome to depart with me.” 

She turned and whacked her shin on an ottoman, which she promptly kicked. “Your house is quite ridiculous, like a grotesque hermit crab, and you are the most crustacean of all titled individuals I have ever encountered, and should you prove to be typical, I hope I never meet any further. This is a most ridiculous drawing room, and you should open the curtains. Although I suspect you have them closed for you are frightened to look at your interiors, Lord knows I should be. If you snub my family again in my presence, be aware that I care not a whit for your title, nor for my gender, and I will call you out. Good day, madam!” 

She made her own way to the door, and did not turn to see whether either Mr Collins or Miss Kitty Bennett followed in her wake. The door to the trompe d’oeil gallery burst open in her wake and she heard a loud “Miss Bennett,” from a voice that she knew that she knew, but did not know how she knew. She put it from her mind. The only thing she cared for was to reach the front door and to be gone.

The gilded passageway, with its plush red velvet was next, and felt longer than when she had entered, if that were possible. “Miss Bennett, the voice came again, with a tone of amusement to it. She determined that she would stick to her resolve. There was a more emphatic tread of footsteps, with a more excited gait, and she sped her feet likewise.

The entry hall, with its splendidly black and white chess square parquet was finally reached, and Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. However, it was too soon, for her elbow was grabbed, in breach of both etiquette and hygiene, by none other than Mr Darcy, and behind him trailing Kitty.

“Miss Bennett,” he said once more, a trifle breathier than perhaps was warranted. “As always, your command of a situation is enthralling. I dare say my aunt has never been treated so in all her life, and it was a pleasure to be there to see it. Although, of course, I am sure that I should reprimand you for treating my kinswoman in such a manner, polluting the shades of Rosings Park, and so on, so please do treat yourself as having been reprimanded, but I must say, brava. Anne never liked that fan, especially not when brandished in her face in such a manner. May I escort you to Hunsford?”


	5. Mr Darcy is ill (chapter 25)

“Cousin Eliza!” exclaimed Mr Collins. “He is burning hot! Whatever have you done to poor Mr Darcy?” 

Indeed, Elizabeth could not say. 

However, Mr Darcy resolved the matter by vomiting all over the Hunsford parsonage front steps. It was a prodigious amount, and the gentleman was very ill with it, such that Mr Collins looked at Elizabeth  
with an extreme air of reproach, as if she had been responsible for stuffing him full of seedy cakes or other goods that had upset his stomach. 

“We had better bring him inside, cousin Eliza. I cannot think that he would be happy to be seen by the general populace as ill as he is. Can you take his legs?”

Indeed, Elizabeth could, and did, and Mr Darcy was brought onto the settee in the front drawing room, where Mary sponged him down. His face was blotchy with redness, and Elizabeth determined she would set aside her ire for the moment, for humanity dictated that assistance should be first, and foremost in her mind in such a situation, and it would not be helpful to dwell of the moments of the hour prior. Indeed, it was easily done, so very ill did the gentleman look.

“He is very hot, Elizabeth. I do not think he should be removed from the parsonage, if we can help it. I fear it is the ‘virus. William, I do think we had better put the sign up, and alert the congregation, for I would not wish any further spread.”

Mr Collins nodded, and left the room to fetch the quarantine sign, and presumably to wash the front doorstep clean. 

“Elizabeth, we have a difficult situation here. I hate to ask it,” said Mary, “but would you remove to share with Kitty? We can then put Mr Darcy in your room, as it is closer to the necessaries. I know Kitty kicks, and I hate to ask.”

Elizabeth agreed abstractedly, and felt Mr Darcy’s head again, and the fever seemed worse. He caught at her hand, with half open eyes. 

“You have the nicest hands, did I tell you that? Good for catching fish, better than mine,” said Mr Darcy, slurring his words somewhat. 

“What is he saying? He must be hallucinating. Fish, and hands,” said Mary. “The poor fellow.”

“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, “we should remove him to the bed now, and you can ask Mr Collins to fetch some wet compresses and feverfew.”

The sisters managed to manoeuvre Mr Darcy, now standing, with arms over both shoulders, but more firmly around Elizabeth’s, through the corridor, and into the purple room and into Elizabeth’s bed, where Mary made certain to draw the curtains, as much for Mr Darcy’s privacy as for his comfort against the light. Elizabeth, seating Mr Darcy on the bed, was grateful that her habits were tidy, and that her belongings were out of sight. There had already been too much emotion on display this morning for there to be unmentionables as well. 

Mr Darcy allowed his shoes to be removed by Mary, but wagged his fingers at them both when she attempted the same for his coat. “You take too many liberties, madam. You are neither my manservant, nor my wife,” and managed to get himself quite twisted up in the same, which the sisters managed to untangle, at length, and remove. Then, they stopped. It was clear that the clothes must be removed, or at least some further layers of them, but they were both, to a woman, unclear on the most proper way to proceed. 

Mr Darcy resolved it for them by passing out, whereupon they resolved their scruples, and stripped him of all but his innermost layers. Mary, it had to be said, made less of a business of the shirt than did Elizabeth, who had the lower extremities, and found that the pants Mr Darcy had chosen to wear that day were extremely form fitting, which would not have been difficult, were it not necessary to remove them, and that was a difficult thing, more than a pleasurable one, without the gentleman’s co-operation, which he was not available to provide. It was not assisted by the sighs and moans that the gentleman produced as they did so, which appeared to emanate from pain, rather than pleasure, and were extremely distracting. At length, he was free, and free to lie still in the bed, and with that, Mary left the room, in search of the feverfew, and the wet compresses, as Mr Collins had not yet returned.

Mr Darcy did not lie still, but tossed restlessly about, his hands wandering about the bed searchingly. “Mr Darcy, lie still. We will fetch a physician, sir, all shall be well,” said Elizabeth, in as soothing a tone as she could manage, given the circumstances. 

The gentleman attempted to open his eyes. “Come now, what is this Mr Darcy nonsense? Have I offended you so very terribly that my Christian name is quite forgot? I am not Mr Darcy to you, surely. Call me by my name, do.”

Elizabeth looked about the room, but there was no one to hear, and no harm in indulging her patient.

“Fitzwilliam, lie still,” she said sternly, “You will do yourself a further harm. You must rest.”

But he would not do so. “That is not the name you call me, not this many years since we were first wed. You cannot ask me to lie here in this bed, that smells so delightfully of you and hold me at such a distance with my own name, my love, not when my head hurts so, and my throat and my chest. Let the last thing I hear be my name on your lips and I will die a happy man. Where are our children? Let me see them.”

It was clear that the gentleman was very unwell in the extreme, for Elizabeth was most certain that should she have been married to Mr Darcy, and had not one but several children with him, she should have remembered it vividly, particularly since she was so very cross with him at present, both for his proposal and for scaring her so with this illness. And she must answer, for the gentleman was even now attempting to get up out of the bed, in search of his supposed offspring, calling for Charles, and Bethan, and Harry, and that was something that she had no time to pay attention to just now, but approved vehemently of his selection of names, if nothing else.

“Will,” she said, hoping that she guessed at his fantasy correctly, “you must stay in bed, and the children will visit you when you are well. You know that they have not had the ‘virus, as I have, and we must keep them safe. Do rest, so that they may have a father and I promise you that they shall be happier for it. Lie still.”

She had, and appeased, the gentleman lay still again, although he grasped at her hand, his hands burning still, despite his general lack of clothing. 

“I am very sorry to be such a burden, Lizzie my love. This was not the morning I had intended for us. I promise I shall make it up to you once I am well, and we are at home in Pemberley. I know we cannot do that, but would you lie with me until I sleep? Your hands are so cool, and I am so terribly hot.” His eyes were most beseeching, for all that they were not quite in focus, and it would have been churlish to insist on the reality in which such a thing was quite improper, since they were not wed, and judging by the degree of disconnect betwixt their lives, never likely to become so.

She toed her shoes off, and noted that they would likely need a brush and wash, to reduce the possibility of tramping the virus about the Hunsford town and county, but such would needs be attended to once poor Mr Darcy was asleep, for heaven knew what kind of fever he would work himself into if his supposed wife left the room. She wished that Mary would hurry back with the feverfew and some water, to at least ease the pain. 

The bed creaked concerningly as she climbed onto it, and Mr Darcy, no, Will, opened his arms, so that it was clear where he intended that she lie, directly in his embrace. There was no turning back, not now.

His arms were very warm indeed, and closed about her, she felt most comfortable indeed, almost too much so. It appeared that in their married life, Mr Darcy felt that her head was most appropriately cushioned on his chest, quite tightly indeed, so that she could hear each and every one of his heartbeats, and feel the heat of his body through his light undershirt. It was a heady sensation indeed, and were it not for the fact that such was quite improper, and that his heart was too fast, and his heat too high, she would have been quite content to lie there, wrapped in his arms, and his scent, until he had, indeed, found his slumber. But this would not do. 

“Mr Darcy,” she said, and she could feel the rumble of his chuckled reproof before he said it. “Will. You are too hot. This will not help you. Your head must lie on me, not this way about.”  
She felt a hot kiss pressed to the back of her head, and one hand slide down to the small of her back, pulling her closer still.

“I think it is helping me, Lizzie.” Again, she could hear the chuckle in his chest, but there was something else now in it too, and she had to remind herself, most sternly, that she was entirely vexed with the gentleman, who even now was cupping her rear in a manner most scandalous, and most proprietary, but also most extraordinarily delightful, and she hoped very much that Mr Collins and Mary might find that the feverfew needs must be fetched from the garden and prepared, and the water fetched from the village pump, for there was also a most warm, most muscular, and most insistent leg nudging hers apart, and pressing into her most intimate parts with a most enjoyable firmness, causing her to squirm quite involuntarily, and she did not entirely want him to stop.  
However.

“Will,” she said, somewhat dismayed to find her voice as breathy and unsteady as if they had been dancing, “you are not well, and this we need to stop. I am asking you nicely, and I promise you that I will ask you nicely to do other things, once you are well, but you need to rest if you wish ever to be a husband to me in future.” 

She was released, and she heard the gentleman give a deep sigh, and felt the catch in his lungs as if her own. She wriggled her way out of his arms, noting in passing that her body appeared to be regretting that decision already, no matter how sensible, and Mr Darcy allowed himself to be arranged so that his head fell on her bosom, to which he absently pressed a hot kiss above her bodice, scalding on her neck. He was indeed still extremely hot, but his breathing eased slightly, and she felt the instant that he fell asleep.


	6. Mr Darcy takes a swim (chapter 32)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth stays a little longer than she really ought

Unfortunately, as the swimmer drew nearer to the jetty, Elizabeth discerned that it would not be appropriate, after all, to remain, as it appeared that Mr Darcy had elected, as any young gentleman might on his own private estate, unburdened by prying eyes, to swim but in the clothing which the good Lord had allotted him at birth.

And yet, she found that her feet were rooted fast, as if she were that dryad that he had called her, so many weeks ago, and all she could do was wait, and watch, as the swimmer cleanly broke the lake’s surface, and made a swift line to the small wooden jetty. 

It appeared that the leaves of the woods had, after all, concealed her presence, for Mr Darcy made no attempt to conceal his most English part as he pushed up, and out of the water, and onto the jetty, or any attempt otherwise at modesty, only turning to face the lake once more, and shaking his head and his limbs, in the manner of a dog seeking to shake all water away, then tousling his hair with his hands, squeezing a little river of water from his hair, then allowing it to hang on his shoulders , surveying the water once more, with his back towards Elizabeth, all unaware of her presence. 

The last that she had seen of him was during that dreadful time of his fever, when she had had the duty of watching over him for that terrible period before he could be safely removed to Rosings Park, and then to Pemberley. He had spoken most widely, in his fevered imaging, had behaved quite as if they were an old married couple, and she had had not been able to devise a way to deflect it without distress to them both, and the effort of doing so had quite prevented her from taking an observation, even if it had been proper, of what such a gentleman as Mr Darcy might conceal ‘neath his clothes. His arms, which had been so tightly, so warmly wrapped about her person, were as well formed as she had imagined, and his shoulders broad and more muscled than she had supposed, and it was clear that Mr Darcy was not one of those gentlemen of leisure who was content to sit and take his ease while others worked on his behalf, without taking his fair share of the labour, and had earnt his musculature with it. His waist was trim, and narrow, and as she had suspected, his seat, which she had not groped as he had hers, was firmly formed, and she regretted now that she had kept her hands in appropriate places, and not taken advantage of the opportunity, wrong as it would have been to do so. Indeed, she was beginning to feel as heated as he had been that day, and much more conscious that what she was doing was a terrible liberty when the gentleman had no awareness of her presence. She had just determined that she should call out and alert him that he was no longer alone, when he turned and it was too late to decently do so.

Through an increasing blush, she realised that she had followed the hair on his broad chest down a trail of his body to a part no lady should be observing without the sanction of the church and marriage vows spoken, but could not curb her curiosity sufficiently to stop doing so. As she had suspected from his fevered embrace, it appeared that any woman marrying Mr Darcy would not be disappointed, at least when it came to the business of the bedroom. With some little effort, and curiosity finally sated, Elizabeth closed her eyes, and finally called a somewhat overly breathy ‘Mr Darcy’, perhaps in tones more suited to a bedroom, but the alarm had at least been given. When she opened them again, Mr Darcy had disappeared into the shadows of the forest, as had the bundle of clothes on the pier.


	7. Aftermath of a proposal, in which restraint only runs so far

“Mr Darcy,” asked Elizabeth as they perambulated.

“Do not you dare relegate me to that name! Call me by my own name, Elizabeth, or I shall begin to think that I have dreamt the last hour. Show some mercy, do.”

“Fitzwilliam, then. Will. I must thank you again, for Lydia’s sake. What you did, how you found them, I know not, but it must have been quite trying, with London as it is, and your own sister’s experience in your mind. Thank you,” she said quietly, looking down the hill.

Mr Darcy made a strange half choked noise in his throat. “While I had my own part to play, did your sister not tell you? She had her own small revenge on that scoundrel, for once he was distracted on our forcing the door, and I can dare say you can imagine what he said to me when he saw me, or rather you should not, it was quite foul, once he was distracted, she hit him over the head with a full chamber pot. Then, when he turned, one only can imagine with the intent of taking it out on her person, she kneed him in the privates. It was only then that he stumbled back, and on forcing the window, sought to make good his escape. I understand that a carriage ran over him immediately after his fall. London is a little savage sometimes, I am afraid.”

Elizabeth stopped. She had a clear image of the duplicitous blue eyed scoundrel, malodourously smeared, wincing in pain as Lydia took her final actions in that tiny room, and the thought that Lydia had aided in her own rescue was extremely satisfying. “So is Lydia.”

Mr Darcy made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort, as they crossed from the bottom of the hill into the little wilderness that Mr Bennett kept at the bottom of the Longbourn property, thick with late raspberries, and wild pink hedge roses, growing where they would, chaotically and unpredictable. “So am I, I dare say. If he had not leapt from the room, I do believe I should have pushed him, or worse, and then had that sin on my conscience, as well as all the lesser ones. So really, I dare say, I should be thanking your sister for sparing me.”

Elizabeth sniffed. “I cannot begin to judge that statement properly, in the absence of information. Which lesser sins are we talking about?”

Mr Darcy cocked an eyebrow at her. “I will answer that, if you will tell me something in return.”

Miss Bennett viewed him quizzically, the sunlight dappling his face as the early morning rays emerged over the hill and through the cane. 

“And remember that you have promised to marry me, and you cannot go back on your promises, Miss Bennett. Elizabeth. Eliza.”

“I am slightly concerned, Will, Fitzwilliam, Mr Darcy.”

“When exactly was it that you determined that you had – that is – when did you know that I was not the last man in the world that you would wish to marry?”

Elizabeth gasped. “You cannot cast up anything that I said to you that day, I forbid it! I was so very wrong in how I spoke to you, and so very wrong in how I judged you, it is completely unfair. Promise me that this is the last time you will tease me so.”

Mr Darcy held up his hand in solemn oath, and she kissed it. 

“There. I do not actually have an answer for you, for it came on so gradually that I was in the midst of it before I knew that it had started. Like a regular cold, and not the dreadful ‘virus. Call it, perhaps, from when I first saw your magnificent grounds at Pemberley, if you need to fix it somewhere. Is that all that you wish to know?”

Mr Darcy, smiling, shook his head. “That is but the beginning. I wish to know now just how good your eyesight is. Can you, for instance, make out the windows of Longbourn from here, and as to whether there are any members of the family within who could see where we stand?” There was, she noted with interest, a laughing twinkle about his eyes now, and she rather wondered at it. She looked, and although there was a good deal of thicket and bush, and wood betwixt them, it was easy enough for her to see that there was not.

“Of course I can, and there are not. Why do you ask?”

Mr Darcy laughed. “So, Elizabeth, we come to it. Just what did you see when you espied me at Pemberley? I know very well that I was swimming before we met, and what I was swimming in. I know we met afterwards, but what I do not know is where you were standing. Do I have anything to apologise for?”

She knew very well that she was flushing. She had been told by her sisters that she flushed more easily than any of them, save Jane. It started, as best she could tell, about her neck, and spread from there. It seemed, from the way in which he was looking at her lips, and only her lips, that he was not unmoved by the prospect. Had even, perhaps, been thinking over it. She bit at her lower lip, and watched his colour rise.

“I do not see that you do, sir. I certainly saw nothing that I did not wish to see,” she said, and he lifted her hand to his lips. She looked up at the house again, and saw no movement, no telltale silhouettes, but it was better, she felt, in these instances, to be more rather than less cautious. 

“Perhaps,” she said at length, her hand being thoroughly kissed, and her heart racing a trifle more than she had expected at such a simple action, “we might walk on. There is a badger burrow in the woods a way, that might be of interest at this hour of the morning, if we hurry.”

“In the woods, you say? If we were not already affianced, I might suspect your intentions, Miss Bennett.”

“Miss Bennett? I thought I was Eliza, or at least Elizabeth. Perhaps we should turn back to Longbourn, after all, Mr Darcy,” she said, for the fun of seeing his smile and then there was an extremely brisk walk, and the shelter of the wooded grove against any prying eyes that might have anything to say concerning the propriety of the way in which Mr Darcy was kissing Eliza, and Miss Bennett was kissing Will. There were many hands travelling in many places, hardnesses pressed against softnessses with an emphasis that was pleasing to both, at one point Will was backed up against a tree, and the next it was Elizabeth, and when they, reluctantly, stopped because a branch had managed to skewer Elizabeth’s hem, there were leaves that each had to remove from the hair of the other, and neither was entirely presentable, and both were almost incandescently happy. 

“Perhaps,” said Mr Darcy at length, “Perhaps we should go in and I should talk to your father now.”

“I appear to have left a mark on your left collarbone, but not the right,” observed Elizabeth, apropos of nothing.

“I did think I felt a trifle unbalanced. Would you care to, shall we say, balance things out?” The gentleman pulled his shirt open even more to display the right side of his neck, in a most inviting fashion, and Elizabeth bit her lip. Five more minutes, surely, would not be so terrible a thing. Her father was probably not even fully awake. And his skin did taste so very, very good. 

A short time later, Will was missing his shirt, and there were green stains on the back of Elizabeth’s skirt, and neither of them could fully explain how either situation had come to be the case. Elizabeth had found herself deposited on a rock, while Will had exiled himself back to the aforesaid tree, and by the looks of things, they had lost an hour. 

“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps we should both go and talk to Papa, and then you may ride for a special licence.”

Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. “I think I shall stand here for a moment or two longer, and perhaps you might throw me the shirt? I think you have it behind your head. Then by all means, Longbourn, and your papa, but Georgiana will very much kill her brother, with sharp weapons, if we wed by special licence and she is not here to see it. There may be tears, Eliza, tears, and they may be shed by me. Georgie is vicious when she is crossed. Much like I imagine Lydia would be.”

Elizabeth held the shirt still. “Four weeks of this? You are a cruel, cruel man, Mr Darcy, and you knew very well that I could see you. This was a long con, or I am no judge of men, and I am not giving you your shirt back.”

“If you were any judge of men, you would not have said yes, and I would not be missing a shirt. Madam, please, unhand me! I do not think your hand should be quite where it is, if you wish me to maintain my composure.”

“’Madam’ now is it? Shall we test just how much composure you have left, Will?”

Mr Darcy yelped, as Elizabeth confirmed for herself just how cold her hand had become, against the warmth of what was, as she had suspected, an excellently well shaped rear. She gave an exploratory squeeze, and was most gratified to find herself in turn pressed up against a tree trunk, and by the time she recovered from the onslaught of kisses Mr Darcy was pressing to that sweet spot in the crook of her neck that he had discovered made her shiver most deliciously, he had managed to unfasten her bodice, and was looking altogether too smug. Also slightly desperate. His breath was coming as hard as hers, and, disappointingly, he had removed his hands to either side of her head, leaning his full body weight on the tree, not touching her at any particular place, no matter how much she might wish it.

“I suspect that we have found it,” said Mr Darcy, his hot breath tickling down her neck, and her open bodice, “my limits. Am I doing such a terrible job of it, that we are nowhere near yours?”

Elizabeth laughed a little, shakily, and pulled him closer to her, the better to feel his warm body against hers. “Will, I am one iota away from removing your pants, or had you not noticed how little clothing you presently wear?”

For that confession, she was rewarded with a slow, deep, kiss, while his whole body seemed to be trying to form part of the trunk, with her sandwiched in between, and several more minutes were lost to that delicious sensation, before he once more pulled away, again bracing himself with hands to either side.

“Stop stopping, Will,” she gasped. “I cannot think when you do that, and then when you stop, it is exactly as if someone has cancelled Christmas. Kiss me again, please?” It was not quite a request, and it was not quite a command, and only partly a plea.

“Oh,” said Mr Darcy, “I do want to kiss you, which is precisely why I cannot. I want to kiss you here,” and he touched her mouth with a gentle finger, “and here,” on that scintillating spot on her neck, “and here,” between her unbuttoned bodice, “and ..” Mr Darcy allowed his fingers to speak further what he could not. “But, if I do that, then neither of us will be thinking straight, and this is not a secluded lake in my own estate, it is the wooded grove behind your parents’ house. In which are housed any number of Bennetts, and Gardiners and we are not yet married, and when we do this, and thank God it is finally when rather than if, I want no interruptions. I promise you very definitely a Christmas to remember. Or the very least, an All Hallow’s Eve, which is much more proximate in time, because I do not think you have the patience to wait for your Christmas until Christmas. So no, now that I have my shirt,” which indeed he had abstracted from her hands all unnoticed, “I am going to put it on, and straighten my hair, and you are going to undo all my good work and button up that lovely dress, and we shall walk through the orchard to cool down, then we are going into breakfast and by God making this as official as can be with your father so that you cannot back out and your mother stops looking as if she would cheerfully kick me in the privates.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Oh, she would. She does not care for you at all, my Will. Although I imagine that she will once she knows you are to take her least favourite daughter off her hands, there will be baking for days. I do hope you can bear it. The things you have done for us Bennetts!”

Mr Darcy smiled. “The things I want to do with this one particular Bennett, I do not think I wish to discuss with her mother.”

“Ah,” said Elizabeth. “but you shall not be doing them with a Bennett, I thought we had just agreed?”

Mr Darcy inclined his head in question.

“I shall be a Darcy.”  
Mr Darcy smiled, and his eyes twinkled, and it was all Elizabeth could do not to steal back his shirt.


End file.
